“Probably in the coop,” he says, then picks up a rock and throws it at the mess of plywood and chicken wire.
At first all we hear is a bunch of feathers flapping, but then one of the birds comes fluttering out.
Not very far, but enough so we can see it’s got feathers and rubbery red stuff.
“So?” I ask him. “Is that a rooster?” He shrugs. “Looks like a chicken to me.”
“How can you tell?” He shrugs again. “Just does.”
We watch it scratching at the dirt for a minute, and then I ask, “What’s a hen, anyway?”
“A hen?” “Yeah. You got roosters, you got chickens, and then there’s hens. What’s a hen?”
“It’s one of those,” he says, pointing into the Bakers’ backyard. “Then what’s a chicken?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “What are you talking about?”
“Chickens! What’s a chicken?” He takes a step back from me and says, “Brycie boy, you are losin’ it. That’s a chicken!”
He stoops down to pick up another rock, and he’s just about to let it fly
when the sliding-glass door to the back patio opens up and Juli steps outside.
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